


you try so loud to love me (i cannot seem to hear)

by ReinventAndBelieve



Series: a new us has begun [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: (but just barely), Angst, Bottom Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Character Study, Dom/sub Undertones, First Time, Gentle Sex, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Communicating, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Bad at Feelings, Geralt's Witcher-Related Angst, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining, Referenced Jaskier/Others, Sensory Overload, Top Jaskier | Dandelion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:47:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23225791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReinventAndBelieve/pseuds/ReinventAndBelieve
Summary: Everything is touch, red-hot like manticore venom burning through his flesh and he feels like he’s downed a particularly bad combination of potions with the way his head spins, the too-fast thudding in his chest, the wordless all-consuming sensations of pleasure and distress and longing as soft lips find their way to the back of his neck, murmuring soothing words in his ear like Geralt’s a spooked animal, gentle hands stroking his hair and his shoulders and his flanks, still-clothed torso draped over the witcher like…Like alover.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: a new us has begun [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1677274
Comments: 61
Kudos: 705
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	you try so loud to love me (i cannot seem to hear)

**Author's Note:**

> Set vaguely between 1.04 and 1.05.  
> Title from That Unwanted Animal by The Amazing Devil.

Geralt doesn’t know how it begins, exactly. He doesn’t know exactly how their usual proximity became shared breath and searching glances and eyes darting to bitten lips, how careful, restrained touching to rub ointment on tattered skin shifted into desperate grabs at any piece of scarred white flesh that the bard can hold onto as they rock against each other, rutting like animals, a muscled thigh providing Jaskier with the friction he seeks as they rub and thrust and moan against each other in the darkness of the woods.

He doesn’t know how it begins, but suddenly everything is touch, everything is searing stolen moments beneath Geralt’s heavy winter cloak draped across the two of them in the dead of night, red embers that were once a fire the only source of warmth and so they generate their own heat. Jaskier’s graceful, calloused fingers jerk him skillfully, perfectly, and he doesn’t quite know why, doesn’t intentionally move at all but finds himself grabbing Jaskier’s other hand from his hip and dragging it lower, lower and back, and suddenly Jaskier’s hand stills on his cock and he’s staring at Geralt like a man who’s _ravenous_ , and he launches forward to possess Geralt’s mouth for a moment before his fingers—long, talented, and beautiful, slicked and smelling, Geralt fuzzily recognizes, like chamomile—slowly work the witcher apart.

Everything is touch, red-hot like manticore venom burning through his flesh and he feels like he’s downed a particularly bad combination of potions with the way his head spins, the too-fast thudding in his chest, the wordless all-consuming sensations of pleasure and distress and longing as soft lips find their way to the back of his neck while the bard enters him, slowly, carefully, murmuring soothing words in his ear like Geralt’s a spooked animal, gentle hands stroking his hair and his shoulders and his flanks, still-clothed torso draped over the witcher like…

Like a _lover_.

And that’s unbearable, too much and too warm and too too _too_ so Geralt snaps his hips backwards toward the bard, hard, eyes fluttering shut at the sharp burn and the breathless moan ripped from the singer’s throat and Geralt scents a fresh wave of lust, crisp and dark, rolling off of the man in the night air. It’s a smell he’s intimately familiar with, one he’s known since he first met the boy years ago, one he’s never acknowledged or let himself dwell on. Better not to complicate, he’d told himself, better not to let him know how Geralt’s noticed his clouded stares, his bitten lip, the intoxicating smell of his arousal, not when Geralt cannot truly reciprocate that big and vulnerable and _human_ feeling he’s glimpsed in the way Jaskier looks away blushing, that he’s heard in those melancholy ballads. Yet here he is, surrendering to it, canting his hips toward it until it’s everywhere, it’s all his senses, it’s blended into the night air and the red-hot venom touch and the surprisingly hoarse moan of _“Geralt”_ from that usually smooth golden voice as they move together, and it’s not graceful or gentle or tender but it’s easy, easy to drown in it, to sink inside that feeling, to give _in_.

Jaskier’s hand finds its way back to his cock and Geralt is gone with a single stroke, coming with a groan across those calloused fingertips, that too soft palm, and with a keening, “ _Fuck,_ Geralt,” Jaskier’s hips stutter through his own climax.

They’re side by side on the shared bedroll, the cold night wind unpleasantly harsh on sweat-soaked skin, when Jaskier breaks the silence. “Well.” The bard is still panting, slightly, but he puts on a good show of his typical verbosity. “That was...unexpected? Though not unwelcome, by any means!” He’s looking straight up at the stars, swallowing. “How...how are you? Good? I mean, I should hope. Not to say that...”

“Jaskier?”

“Yeah?”

“Go to sleep.”

“Right, yeah, right,” he muses, shuffling a bit. He turns, lying on his side to face the witcher, a tentative hand coming to rest on his shoulder. It’s not a particularly romantic gesture, but it feels staggeringly intimate. “Goodnight, Geralt.”

A stronger man might have turned away, cut off the touch, but he finds that he can’t. “Goodnight,” he answers instead. He closes his eyes but feels the hand on his shoulder like lightning coursing through his nerves, beauty and illumination and destruction all tied into one.

  
  
  
  
  


They continue much the same as they always have. They travel together when it suits them, stop at brothels when it suits them, part ways when it suits them. Geralt hunts monsters, acquires new scars for his collection. Jaskier writes songs—epic ballads of their grand adventures (liberally enhanced) that solicit the coin for their dinner, their board, and the occasional apple for Roach; filthy ditties that lead to dozens of hands clutching and groping the bard as he works the room, hands that he evades and hands he allows, winking and grinning and growling into each dirty joke; and the other songs, the ones the witcher hears snippets of on the road but rarely hears performed for an audience, quiet songs about petals and stars and pears and threads. Geralt isn’t a poet, tries not to memorize the figurative, flowery words, but he can’t help the dam that settles in his throat at the sound of that usually boisterous voice so tender, each note a caress as he croons against the setting sun.

They fuck, and often. Jaskier may not be quite the boy he was when he followed Geralt from the tavern in Posada nearly a decade ago, but he still has the insatiable enthusiasm of youth. They fuck most every night they’re together, except...

Except on nights when Jaskier’s performance draws the attention of some curvy barmaid or pretty stableman, when they approach him after his set and whisper to him things they imagine only the bard can hear, things that cause the telltale hitch in his breath and the accelerating heartbeat, and then Geralt slips discretely from his table in the shadows and goes to groom Roach and meditate alongside her in the stall for the evening, or seeks out ingredients to replenish his potions, or sometimes just walks until he finds somewhere quiet and solitary to sleep. He isn’t jealous. The boy’s welcome to take lovers. But Jaskier is thoughtful, in his own, noisy way, and Geralt doesn’t want him to send the beautiful young people he desires away from his bed for the sake of a scarred, ill-tempered mutant out of _pity_.

Geralt hates pity, and that alone should be reason enough to make himself scarce when Jaskier has better options. But there’s also a part of him—that biting, twisting ache in his gut—that fears the bard will grow to resent him if his presence keeps him from seeking his pleasure.

And so Geralt returns in the mornings, and sometimes he can smell these paramours on Jaskier when they meet at breakfast or in the stables or on the street and sometimes he can’t, but either way Jaskier is alight with a smile that reaches his bright eyes each time he calls out “Good morning, Geralt!” 

And it’s enough.

  
  
  
  


It’s gone on for nearly a year when the question Geralt has dreaded finally comes.

It’s been over a month since they last traveled together. Jaskier had journeyed to Oxenfurt to give a series of poetry lectures as a favor to one of his beloved professors, and Geralt had followed notices in the opposite direction, so when he hears a lute and smells the tell-tale scent of Jaskier’s rosemary and lavender skin cream outside a tavern, he quickly stables Roach and heads inside. As soon as Jaskier sees Geralt, he smiles, cutting his song off two verses early and packing away his lute as he gives his most heartfelt apologies to the crowd before making his way over to Geralt, two ales in hand.

In the morning Geralt will hunt a zeugl that’s been plaguing the town’s sewers, bound to be a _delightful_ affair; he speaks to the alderman sitting in the tavern’s hall, negotiating a surprisingly fair contract (provided, at any rate, that the man keeps his word once the deed is done). Jaskier sits beside him through the meeting, fiddling with his lute case but never bringing the instrument out, sipping at his pint and politely smiling and shaking his head to the drunken patrons who approach him.

As soon as the alderman leaves, Jaskier drains the rest of his ale and stands. “Well, _I’m_ feeling a little tired this evening,” he announces, yawning and stretching dramatically to drive the point home. He tilts his head with that tiny hint of a pout when he looks down at Geralt. “Join me?”

Wordlessly, Geralt follows him up the stairs.

The room is cramped and the blanket on the straw mattress is threadbare, but it’s clean and there’s a small hearth. Geralt silently kneels to build up the fire as Jaskier settles in, moving the witcher’s pack beside his own, straightening up some sheets of writing on the desk in the corner, slipping gracefully out of his boots and lilac doublet.

“Awfully early to retire.” Geralt doesn’t know what makes him say it, but it’s true; usually the bard sings at least another hour. He stacks another piece of firewood onto the flames as he feels Jaskier draw close behind him.

“Hmm.” Long fingers comb his white hair over one shoulder, smoothing languorously down the exposed skin of Geralt’s neck before nimbly unbuckling his armour and pulling it away. “Well, darling, it’s merely the rigors of the troubadour's life! Always in the spotlight, always entertaining, always _giving_...it would drive a lesser man to exhaustion.”

Geralt snorts as he stands, turning to face the bard. “Never known you to pass up a performance.”

“I missed you.” Jaskier is smiling that brilliant smile at him again, all white teeth and crinkled eyes and relaxed, honest body. He says it like it’s simple, natural. 

Geralt grunts.

The noise is meant to discourage that too-bright expression Geralt can barely meet, but instead Jaskier just laughs, closing the remaining distance between them and rolling his eyes with a quirk of his lips that could almost be fond. “Oh yes, _very_ scary man, I’m sure you didn’t miss me in the slightest.” He drapes his arms over wide shoulders, and Geralt’s hands automatically curl around the small waist. Jaskier leans forward to place a featherlight kiss on his lips, the remnants of his musical laugh still written on his face. “Now take me to bed, you boorish brute, you.”

It isn’t usually like this.

On the nights when they stay in town and Geralt doesn’t disappear to let Jaskier find more pleasant company, it’s usually fast and dark and desperate, touches that only come after they settle into bed as though neither knows where the evening is headed, hands clapped over mouths to keep other guests from hearing. It’s never like this, leisurely, luxurious, reverently spreading out the bard’s long frame on the bed while a fire crackles in the hearth.

Geralt kisses him, and Jaskier’s lips sigh open at the pressure. They’re still very clothed but it doesn’t seem to matter, somehow. It’s slow, mapping the ridges and valleys and little laugh lines of the bard’s face with his eyes, his fingers, his lips. And it isn’t the usual wild desperation, the stolen moments that he’s allowed himself: Jaskier _invited_ him into his room, into his bed, as though he truly wants the witcher; he’s breathless and sighing and moaning into his touch as though he’s blissful, content. And so, just for tonight, Geralt allows himself to explore, to place whispered kisses along his jaw and down his long neck. To imagine.

His hands drift down to the bard’s waist, lightly tugging at the flimsy dove grey linen of his chemise until it’s free from his trousers. His fingers skim the warm flesh beneath as he drags the shirt over Jaskier’s head, sitting back on his heels to drink in the sight.

He never allows himself this, and so he tries to memorize the lines of Jaskier’s lithe torso, that shock of soft dark fur across his chest narrowing into a defined trail disappearing beneath his trousers. The way his neck and collarbone look splotchy and red—not bruised, never bruised—from Geralt’s recent attention, the flush inviting, enticing. The way the flickering firelight bathes the bard in a golden glow, warmth emanating from his relaxed jaw, his gently rising and falling chest, but mostly his eyes, too bright, too blue, too open.

Jaskier’s grinning at him again, a hand casually stroking down his own chest, a thumb catching on an interested nipple. “Like what you see?” He’s clearly aiming for cheeky, but it’s almost a moan.

“Hm.”

A quirk of an eyebrow shows that the bard clearly isn’t impressed with that answer. His wandering hand drifts lower, caressing down the flat stomach, fingertips flirting with the waistband of his trousers. The move has the desired effect as Geralt finds he can’t look away from the hard line of his cock straining against the delicate lilac brocade, graceful and long and lovely. “Use your words, Geralt.” There’s an unexpected command in his voice that sends surprised shockwaves straight to the witcher’s cock, already painfully hard in his leathers, but Jaskier pays him no heed, his hand trailing further down to lightly stroke himself through the fabric. “Do you like me like this?” His voice is low, now, a lilting purr. “Like seeing how I ache for you, darling?”

“ _Yes._ ”

A delighted moan is Geralt’s reward as Jaskier unlaces himself, pulling his cock out and stroking to an unhurried tempo. “I missed you terribly, Geralt,” and that flirtatious voice is a little strained, suddenly, a little bare. “Missed being inside you, missed you inside me. Missed your grumbled protests about my oversleeping and hogging the bed and talking too...”

And Geralt can’t listen anymore, can’t bear the fluttering, unsettling feeling so he grabs Jaskier by the hips and pulls him up to meet him. The bard is more than happy to scramble into his lap, long legs stretching around the witcher’s thick torso with practiced ease. Geralt rolls their hips together as Jaskier pulls him into a deep, needy kiss, releasing him only to pull Geralt’s shirt off before finding him again. They share moans between them as they rock, and he isn’t sure whose moans they are as vibration and sound and smell and feeling blend until there’s nothing but Jaskier, the smoothness of his skin, the scent of his arousal, the soft friction of his body hair, the taste of his lips and the skin of his throat and the hint of lavender perfume behind his ear.

Geralt’s teeth skim lightly over his collarbone as he lavishes attention on the flushed expanse of skin when he hears a hitch in the heavy breath. “Please, Geralt”—and that melodious voice is barely more than a gasp, shaking and undone—“what am I to you? What is this?”

Their hips halt, Geralt’s face still buried in the crook of the bard’s neck. For a wild moment he considers pretending he hasn’t heard the question, pressing on as though Jaskier hasn’t changed everything by saying it out loud, but he forces himself to dismiss the thought. He breathes, steadying himself, arms still tightly wrapped around the man in his lap. When he draws back to meet his gaze, Jaskier’s face is tight and conflicted, looking in no small part embarrassed, yet there’s a quiet strength in his eyes, pride in the set of his jaw.

Geralt knows it’s a fair question.

If he were a man, it would be simple. He feels the way his pulse quickens to nearly human speeds around the bard: when he’s inside him, yes, but also sometimes when Jaskier fixes him with one of his devastating smiles, when he hears a particularly stunning line in one of those quiet songs at sunset. If he were a man, he would know what to give, would know how to take him in his arms without that buzzing in the back of his mind, that tightening in his throat.

But he’s a witcher, a vile abomination created of magic and cruelty. He knows monsters and killing, silver and steel, coin and drink and the cold hard earth beneath him, stones and sharper curses volleyed at him as he leaves town after town. There are no words for soft things, for the strange crinkling around the bard’s eyes as he catches Geralt’s glance while he’s singing in a tavern, for the gentle gasps he lives to hear when he renders the bard speechless beneath his tongue, for the tiny smile that crooks the corner of those warm red lips as he falls asleep sated, relaxed, with an arm tossed casually over the witcher’s chest. 

Geralt knows it’s a fair question, knows Jaskier deserves an answer, but he has none so he answers in the only language available to him. He gently untangles them but maintains the connection of constant touch, pulling Jaskier carefully to sit at the edge of the bed, and he sinks to his knees before the trembling bard like a devout man before an altar, praying that his offering of pleasure is enough, knowing that it isn’t.

But long, slender fingers glide through white locks nonetheless, rubbing tender circles into his scalp, and it isn’t enough, but Jaskier accepts it all the same.

**Author's Note:**

> Come cry with me about these dumbasses on [tumblr](https://reinvent-and-believe.tumblr.com)


End file.
